In whispered echoes, I greet you, it's me.
Know this, perfection is but a dream,
Neither you nor I wear its flawless sheen.
For who among us can claim that title?
In a world where perfection is but a fable.
A curve here, a bulge there, in my frame,
But not defined by numbers, nor by shame.
In generosity, I find solace, I confess,
My size bears witness, a testament, no less.
And as for truth, a tangled web we weave,
In shadows of falsehood, do we deceive.
With every word, a tale spun, to hide,
Or perhaps to shelter, someone by our side.
Within, a paradox, the self we keep,
A truth, a lie, in shadows deep.
Is there a beast within, a liar's guise?
Or just the fragile heart, veiled in guise.
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